


Creator

by jamaillith



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1896084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamaillith/pseuds/jamaillith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William Stryker's dreams refuse to stand still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creator

William Stryker’s dreams refuse to stand still. They jitter and leap and skip, dancing away from his clutching fingertips when he reaches out for them. He awakes- sweating, gasping- and feels them melt away into nothingness, leaving behind whispers and suggestions he tries to ignore.

His dreams are often confusing- violent and bruisingly colourful. His son’s face appears often before him, imploring him to stop the pain, Daddy, please Daddy, because it hurts so much. His friends in ‘Nam, his faithful men in platoons of marching dead. He tries too hard to distinguish himself from the freaks in his cells, but he believes his dreams are no more convoluted than theirs.

This one, the one that drops into his mind seemingly as soon as his eyes slip closed, is not new. It usually happens after he hasn’t been sleeping for a few days, when he’s at his most stressed.

It begins in a nightclub - a dirty nightclub, the sort he hasn’t visited since he was a young man in the corps. Girls writhe and arch against steel bars, strutting the small stages with pointed heels. Their skin burns in the liquid lights, colour glancing off of the sweat and glistening areas of flesh. Their mouths open, pink tongues lolling.

His brother, beside him, grins. _I think they’re trying to tell us something._

 _Don’t be stupid_ , he replies, feeling heavy and detached in his plastic chair. His hands rest on a console, fingers lax on buttons that have weapons beneath them. He looks around, shifts in his seat. The console disappears. The other patrons of the club eye him with disdain. Mutants he has known and abused; men he has seen die in hot, green forests. Wagner, toasting him with a martini and a girl on his lap. Yuriko curls her fingers into Wagner’s hair and grins at him. 

He glances around, and his brother has been replaced by his son, who stares at him with those demon-sent eyes and speaks in his own voice. _Daddy, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to I want to go back, please, Daddy -_

He looks away. The thumping music of the club suddenly becomes louder, more primitive. He gazes at the stage as a new figure appears, slippery oil in the white-wash dry-ice shadow. He knows who it is even before the figure steps into the lights, but his mutinous eyes keep him watching. 

_Logan._ Jason mutters.

 _I don’t know who he is_ , Stryker replies. Logan walks across the stage, the music muted to a dull rhythm. Stryker can almost see right down to his bones.

Logan strides to the edge of the stage and off it, jumping neatly to the floor. He is heading straight for Stryker. The lights gleam from his adamantium claws, fully extended and sheathed in silver glints. Blood runs from his knuckles, beading at the points and dripping onto the floor. Stryker glances to see if his son is watching, and finds the club suddenly empty besides himself and the Wolverine.

Logan grins- snarls. _I’ve come to repay a debt._

 _You don’t need to do that,_ Stryker replies. As Logan approaches, Stryker feels heat emanating from him, as if he were aflame. He notices that Logan’s shirt is a size too small, riding high so there is a band of dark skin between its hem and the waistband of his jeans. Stryker wants to touch it.

Logan smiles as if he knows what Stryker’s thinking. He stops inches from touching him, his chest heaving as if he’s run a race. Sweat beads along his brow, and the nightclub has suddenly become as humid as a jungle. The music is a soft and fluid pumping through the still air. 

_You don’t know what you’re doing,_ Wolverine growls, exposing his teeth. His hips sway in time to the beat, a cobra dancing in Indian dust. With each movement, the bottom of his shirt rises and smothers against his abdomen. The muscles beneath it are darkly damp as they disappear from sight. He smells like formaldehyde. 

_I know perfectly well what I’m doing. I own you. I know you._ Stryker retorts. Logan laughs and it sounds like a roar. He moves closer, his eyes locked with Stryker’s. 

_You don’t know me any more. You don’t know who I am, remember?_ He eases himself onto Stryker’s lap, straddling him like a woman, like his wife used to before she took a drill to her head. Logan’s eyes flash- one blue, one green. Heat runs off him in waves. He rolls his hips against Stryker’s, teasing him. 

_I made you. I made these._ Stryker touches one of Logan’s claws. The metal is icy, and his finger comes away coated in blood. Logan writhes in his lap, his eyes rolling back in his head. The heat becomes almost unbearable. Stryker can feel Logan’s heart beating. The Wolverine moves his hips in time with the beat of the music, weighty against him. 

_Make me again._ He breathes into Stryker’s ear, and now he sounds like Jason. Stryker buries his face on Logan’s neck, thrusts uselessly against him.

_I can’t._

 

Stryker wrenches himself from the dream with an almost physical pull, crying out as he is thrown back into the real world. He is sitting up, staring at the shadows of shifting grey and green. The silence is almost as cold as the sweat on his back, the shadows deep and rusty. He hears the simple noises of the compound- the soft footsteps of the guard, the dull clanks from somewhere in the iron depths. He swings his feet out of bed, and buries his face in his hands. His groin throbs dully, and he smells like old blood.


End file.
